The Pull

never used the room we had

    to grow sunflowers

instead, it rained

    drenching your curls

flattening my face

green filled the space

     but yellow never surfaced

lost in tall grass, i cried

     you rode the leaves into sky

i waited, below

winter came, all was barren

     your breath chilled my bones

i sucked in your air

     like when you vacuumed

like a madman

yet crumbs, hair, lint, and dirt

     remained

i lay on black carpet

     with a blue heart

you stare with black eyes

     whirlwind of dust drags me

all the way back to you

Wanderer

Wanderer. I dream of parallel places, things, realities, I daydream into the night. If I am not here, with you, I am somewhere else, alone. You become fuzz, like the static channel on the TV. I picture that, not this. Hope for a better future, past, present. Wanderer. The grass is greener when my face is. Have you ever felt like a color? I always thought you’d be blue. Wondering what happened to your smile, I dream of lush gardens with plants for teeth. You are there, somewhere. Wanderer. I don’t know where I am, but I know you are here. I feel the stubble of your chin, the freckle on your nose, the warmth of your face, your blue blood. We are here, eating leaves, ever so careful not to pick sweet fruit.